The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  Their heads were freshly shaven. Their swollen lips and eyes spoke volumes of the abuse they had endured, and yet here they stood, chipper and lively. “What are you two doing here? Are you insane?” Blasphemy hissed through clenched teeth, careful to make sure her words were neither seen nor heard.

  The Authority Figure by the train’s sliding door peered at the three of them.

  Blasphemy put on a pained and demoralized face.

  The man looked away.

  “We’re rescuing you, you twit,” Parody whispered as soon as the coast was clear.

  “We’ve been in worse jams than this,” Doxy added, taking a wide step to be by Parody’s side.

  They were both wearing handcuffs too. Or at least at a glance, it looked like they were.

  “Hard to believe,” Blasphemy replied, counting, one more time, the guns and the many angles at which they could die instantaneously.

  By then, there were only about five Fallows ahead of them in line. They were quickly and obediently climbing onto the train.

  “I suppose there’s no time like the present,” Blasphemy said, three Fallows remaining in front of her.

  Then two. . .

  “Uh-uh-uh! Not part of the plan.”

  Having no other option presented to her, Blasphemy climbed into the train car. Parody and Doxy came in behind her.

  The Authorities shoved about ten more women inside. After which, the doors slid shut. The light was reduced to dots and slits between loose bolts and rusty metal. The heavy chains and locks may have been unseen to them, but they were heard and felt as they were fastened in place.

  Doxy and Parody closed in, face forward. They formed a circle of three. And they took a wide stance to brace themselves as the train lurched into motion.

  As soon as it did, Doxy’s and Parody’s handcuffs dropped to the ground. They were just for show. And Doxy pulled from between her breasts a set of keys.

  “The Authorities. . .” She started with Blasphemy’s cuffs. “So predictable.” When some of the other women realized what was going on, Doxy was freeing wrists all over the place. “Once their fly is open, their brains fall out!”

  Doxy typically made light of these acts, but there was no denying the edge to her voice. It was one of disgust and contempt.

  While Doxy used the agile hands of hers to put the key to lock again and again, Parody began kicking at a rusty spot on the wall opposite the door. Blasphemy joined in. Soon there were five of them taking turns. Then more. The whole wall was on the brink of collapse.

  A small hole turned into a bigger one. The light of day came in to greet them. So did the blur of brown and fading orange—the forest that could be their saving grace.

  If God was on their side.

  “They’re going to shoot you,” someone in the corner commented, deep in shadow and still in handcuffs, despite the keys being passed around.

  “We’ll take our chances,” was Blasphemy’s response as the hole opened wide enough to jump through. “And you should too.”

  Most of the women were now free of their handcuffs. Those who had refused their help, must have been ready to accept the destination the Authorities had in mind for them.

  Blasphemy pitied those poor, misguided souls.

  Doxy, like a hustler and magician, gave the woman in the corner a pointed glare while maneuvering the keys over and under her fingers. Receiving no reaction, Doxy shrugged and shoved the keys back into her bra. “Suit yourself.”

  Then, on the count of three, the three Fallow writers launched themselves from the train.

  Blasphemy, like Doxy and Parody, tumbled into a roll. Though the pain in her sides was unbearable, it was agony she welcomed. She’d rather bleed out and be free than live another moment in chains.

  Helped to her feet, it was a blast of relief that no bones felt broken. And with her arms over Doxy’s and Parody’s shoulders—she was bleeding from her incision wounds—she hobbled along with them. And they found their stride.

  Other Fallows must have followed their lead and jumped from the train too. The leaves were crunching as they ran. Blasphemy could see them from the corners of her eyes.

  Before long, shots rang out. Bullets were chasing them down. Wails in the distance made it clear that hits were made, but there were too many of them escaping and the Authorities were a few too many steps behind. Plus, the forest was dense, and their directions and destinations, so variable.

  By the time the train’s brakes squealed, they sounded so far off.

  Blasphemy and her saviors—her companions, her family now—headed to lower ground. And before long, they splashed into a stream.

  Though it was brutally cold, it numbed Blasphemy’s pain and covered their tracks.

  And it provided them with a clear path. They were ocean bound . . . and that meant Portsmith, the place that had taken from them more than it could possibly give back, would be graced with their presence . . . and the depth of their fury.

  ***

  Parody lowered her binoculars. Blasphemy scooted closer to her side, gathering in the tattered blanket they were fortunate enough to find in their travels.

  She shivered, her clothes still damp from the stream, as she glanced over her shoulder.

  Why is Doxy taking so long?

  They were on the roof of an old fire house, the building rarely utilized . . . not since the Dark Times. Gasoline was too rare and expensive to keep the dusty red engines active.

  The building served its purpose for them, however. They could sit on the gravel, a brick wall there to protect them from view and shelter them from the wind . . . at least partially. And best of all, it provided an overview of the alley behind Fallow Authorization Headquarters.

  The Authorities and government officials were at liberty to use any entrance that was convenient, but the Fallow, along with any deliveries, went in or out of the loading dock at the back of the building.

  The sun may have made a mid-morning appearance—pale but growing warmer and stronger—it was a new day after all!

  But Virtue had not. . . .

  From what the three of them had pieced together, most of the newly Fallowized were marked as “L” for lumber, like Blasphemy had been, “P” for port, or “S” for service. To accommodate the population explosion, the lumber was going to port for shipment to Fort Braintree or other growing towns, or it would be used to build docks and new oceanfront houses on the coast of Portsmith. The servants were boarding ships or being placed within the new, locally owned construction. It changed from month to month, year to year, but that’s where the current demand for Fallow labor resided.

  And Parody and Doxy claimed they had seen it all. Those assigned to Service left the evening before, and Port and Lumber came out in groups first thing in the morning. That meant Virtue should have exited the building at some point . . . if she did, in fact, become Fallow.

  Doxy was still working her magic. Unless she came up with something, they had no way of knowing for sure. Virtue’s real name remained anonymous, no one had any recollection of her passing through Town Center en route to a fine or a pardon. And witnesses in the High Courtroom had claimed her case was dispensed to a “private conference.”

  Parody lifted the binoculars back to her eyes. A group of Authority Figures came out of the building and wrangled a load of cowering, handcuffed, Fallowized women into a white van that had the Redeemer’s Mark—the black double cross—emblazoned across its side.

  “That’s strange,” she commented, lowering the binoculars again.

  “Do you see her?”

  “No, but look!” She handed Blasphemy the binoculars. “How many guns do you think it should take to keep a few of the Fallow in line?”

  Blasphemy counted the men who were holding their weapons, ready and waiting for an excuse to kill. Some of them were still filtering out of the exit. One, two, three . . . seven, eight. Even the drivers of the van looked armed.

  Blasphemy handed back the binoculars. “What i
s going on this year?”

  The van soon pulled away from the loading dock. Most of the remaining Authorities wandered back into the building, but two remained “on alert” beside the closing door.

  “I have no idea,” was Parody’s delayed response, something Blasphemy had never heard her say.

  When it came to the mistreatment of the Fallow, Parody and Doxy were the experts. But times were changing. There was something even more sinister in the air. It brought to mind the Captain. Blasphemy’s gut told her that what she had discovered about him wasn’t just some isolated incident.

  She was about to mention this to Parody . . . to get her take . . . but Parody nudged her with an elbow, her way of lightening the mood. Blasphemy smiled and nudged her back to play along. Like Parody, she could use a break from the constant, head-splitting fear and stress.

  “You look dead sexy as a Fallow,” Parody said, running a hand over Blasphemy’s stubbly head.

  Blasphemy emitted a dry laugh. “Bald is beautiful.”

  “No, seriously. . .” Parody widened her gaze and flashed open her hands beside her head. “You’re like all eyes.”

  Blasphemy could feel herself blushing . . . mostly due to disbelief. Her features were striking and that gave her a presence. Some men—and a few women—had been drawn to that, but she wasn’t exactly the delicate-as-a-flower, blushing-bride type. She never would be. And she couldn’t claim that bothered her all that much. “Want a piece?”

  There was a moment of awkward silence, making Blasphemy internally wince at her blunder.

  “You offering?” was Parody’s eventual response. “I don’t do men. Just so you know.”

  “I had a feeling,” Blasphemy admitted tentatively.

  “And if they try to do me, I’m not like Doxy. I don’t use it to my advantage. I just kick the God out of ‘em . . . if I can help it.”

  “Ha! Can you teach me?”

  Parody shrugged one shoulder, and shivered, huddling closer to Blasphemy underneath the blanket in a way that made the tension dissipate. “Any time.”

  “What about Doxy? Are you and her. . . ?”

  Blasphemy filled in the blank with a hand flutter.

  “Occasionally. . .” Parody smiled below the binoculars as she lifted them to her eyes again. “Doxy’s actually straight. But she goes through her phases. She gets fed up but could never write off men entirely.”

  “I can certainly relate to that.”

  “What about you and Gospel?”

  “No!” Blasphemy replied quickly. “We’re closer now than we were, I suppose. As much as anyone can be to Gospel. But it’s not like that. I’m not sure what he’s into . . . honestly . . . if anything. I never got a strong sense either way.”

  “Hmmm. There’s a theory, you know. . .”

  Parody lowered the binoculars and lifted an eyebrow at her.

  “Yeah?” Blasphemy asked, trying not to sound too eager. If she was being honest with herself, though, Gospel was too complicated a character to piece together on her own.

  “It’s blatantly clear what side he’s on and who he’s against, right? He’s a vigilante. But he’s also not squeamish. So . . . abandoned as a baby, went to Holy Reclamation Academy on scholarship. No money, no family, but they made an exception for him. He had an all-boys, strict religious upbringing. That has to be weird enough. With me so far?”

  “Sure. No surprises . . . yet.”

  “Oh, we’ll get there. . . Years go by. He defies the odds. He graduates at the top of his class and with every honor—summa cum laude, Valedictorian. All that shit. He must have convinced his superiors that he not only had the Au Courant Word of God memorized, but also believed in its message. Come graduation day, however, he blew up the old Benediction Cathedral and went all hellfire on his Headmaster . . . burning him alive . . . tied to his bed of all places. That’s a lot of pent up anger for a boy with a bright, ‘Godly’ future, wouldn’t you say?

  “Uck,” Blasphemy groaned and had to close her eyes to suppress a gag. “That’s awful. And I have no trouble believing it.”

  They had all the wives they could ever want, but that was still not enough.

  The “theory” would certainly explain a few things about Gospel—his complete disregard for rules and authority, his empathy for the victimized, his covertness and detachment, and also his sexual ambiguity . . . reticence, aversion, or abstinence? Who knew? Maybe Gospel was still figuring it out. And maybe the only way for him to come close to redemption would be to keep doing what he’s doing. Fighting the system . . . to the death.

  “Please don’t tell him I said anything,” Parody blurted, interrupting Blasphemy’s fall toward guilt and despair. If she ever saw him again, she wouldn’t say I’m so sorry or treat him any differently. He’d be unlikely to appreciate that. But she vowed to be subtly kinder and more sensitive . . . and to say thank you at every opportunity. “That’s assuming he’s still alive and it ever comes up,” Parody continued, also questioning Gospel’s resourcefulness and resilience.

  Could he have survived the Bay of Maineland during the worst October had to offer?

  Blasphemy took a deep breath and tapped into some shred of solace. “No worries. I highly doubt it will. And if it does, I’ll say I figured it out for myself. It’s something I should have done anyway. I had most of the pieces. I just didn’t put them together right.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up.” Parody draped an arm around Blasphemy’s shoulder and she took comfort in it. They were now friends who had come to an understanding or two. “It took years on the street to get his story straight. And it’s still just a theory.”

  At that moment, there were footsteps crunching over the rooftop’s gravel. “What’s just a theory?” Doxy asked as they broke away from their huddle for a better look.

  “You’re back!” Parody emitted, a little too overzealously.

  It had Blasphemy peeking over the ledge at the Authorities standing guard. They remained still and their eyes didn’t wander. “Gospel,” Blasphemy muttered to answer her question.

  Doxy threw her hands to heaven and rolled her eyes. But then she staggered. Her complexion blanched too, as if she was seasick rather than jesting her disapproval. After catching her balance, she half-stumbled, half-darted to the far end of the roof.

  “Are you all right?” Parody called out . . . and then winced with her mouth and one eye as Doxy retched into a corner, bringing up anything and everything . . . except a fishnet and a boot.

  “Let’s just say Virtue owes me one,” Doxy moaned upon her return. “She’s an ‘X.’”

  Blasphemy could never do what Doxy did. It gave her the chills and turned her stomach just thinking about it.

  “What does that mean?” Parody wondered aloud, making Blasphemy feel slightly better for having no clue, either. It was her first day as a Fallow, but even so, she hated having gaps in her knowledge.

  “The only ‘X’ I’ve come across never talked about it,” Doxy replied, shrugging, now slightly more stable on her feet. The color was also returning to her cheeks. “She would have kicked my teeth in for asking. But, allegedly, a group of them are leaving Headquarters any minute.”

  It was more like ten minutes. Eventually, though, the mechanical door rolled up. And sure enough, “That’s her,” Parody informed them, confirming it with the binoculars.

  They immediately began shimmying down the side of the three-story building using a combination of rope, pipes, the fire escapes, and loose bricks. Only Parody did so like an expert, and fortunately, went first to demonstrate where to hold, step, pull, glide, while barely making a sound.

  Following her lead, Blasphemy was an amateur in comparison but her feet hit solid ground, nonetheless.

  She peeked around the corner underneath Parody’s chin.

  Virtue was marching at gunpoint . . . though trudging was probably a better word to describe her motion. An Authority Figure had to lift her into the back of the van. She wasn’t capable hers
elf. She looked traumatized, sick, drugged, or perhaps some combination thereof.

  Parody had a couple of false starts. Ultimately, though, she dipped back into the shadows, shaking her head. “Maybe we could follow them somehow?”

  They all exchanged shrugs and grim glances.

  There were too many men holding machine guns . . . even more than they saw earlier. They outnumbered the Fallow this time. But why?

  Blasphemy took Parody’s place at the front edge and kept searching. For some protection, opportunity, blind spot, vulnerability. . .

  And yet she saw nothing except the certainty of death.

  An Authority Figure closed the van’s cargo doors. The engine clicked, turned over, and it must have started, though Blasphemy never heard the roar of an engine coming to life. Because it set off a ground-shaking explosion and blast wave. The van wasn’t in their immediate vicinity and yet she still had no choice but to back away from the force and heat.

  Wails of agony, crashing debris, angry flames and . . . rapid gunfire?

  Blasphemy had to get another look. The passenger cab was completely engulfed in flame, but the cargo doors had blasted wide open. It was black inside and the girls looked . . . okay?

  The Authorities who survived the blast were being drawn off to the far right. And they weren’t faring well. They were out in the open and their hidden assailant showed them no mercy.

  It was now or never.

  Blasphemy made a dash for the open van. Parody and Doxy scurried up behind her. Together, they pulled Virtue out. Helped her find her feet.

  Parody guided Virtue to safety while Blasphemy helped Doxy free the rest of the girls from the burning van, on the brink of an explosion.

  Shots continued to ring out. But soon, they tapered off . . . and stopped.

  The Fallow had scattered. Shrapnel, a few spots of fire, and the bodies of the fallen Authorities were all that remained in the alley.

  Doxy was a few steps ahead of Blasphemy. She turned the corner and Blasphemy was about to follow suit. But she paused in her tracks when she heard a whistle. It started low and took off, ending high.